


No Conscience, One Motive

by the_rogue_bitch



Category: Bleach, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-08
Updated: 2008-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rogue_bitch/pseuds/the_rogue_bitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam dreams of a creature with a bone-white face and a scream like a dying animal that wants to devour his soul. Dean discovers they need to lure this creature out and let someone else kill it. ‘Someone else’ turns out to be…not what they expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Conscience, One Motive

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Fandom Firsts Crossover Challenge, using a fandom not found in the tags in the sidebar. 
> 
> The title comes from the song "The Hollow" (what else?) by A Perfect Circle.

Sam launched into a sitting position, head throbbing with the sound of a scream dying in his ears. Sweat trickled down his nose as he looked wildly around the motel room. It was dark and close, with the curtains closed, but the shadows were just shadows, mundane instead of menacing. 

“Wassamattersammy,” Dean mumbled from the other bed.

“Nothing. A dream, I think.” 

“Reg’lar dream?” 

“I don’t know, Dean. Go back to sleep.”

“’Kay.” Dean shifted, rolled over, and rolled under again.

Sam tried to recall the dream, pressing fingertips into his temples to ease the ache. A floating shadow like ink in water. A smear of white in the darkness. An animalistic scream, metallic and howling and heard as if from down a long tunnel. 

Sam lay back down, trying to dismiss it as another dream, and meaningless. The unease in his gut said otherwise, however, and Sam’s sleep for the rest of the night was light and restless. 

**

Next morning Sam was groggy and clumsy. Dean made fun of him until the coffee arrived at their diner table. Sam drank one cup straight off, grimacing at the heat and bitter taste, and then poured a second cup from the carafe, sweetening and lightening it in his usual way. Dean stared at Sam, mouth slightly agape. 

“Christ, Sammy, what’s the matter with you?” 

“Nothing. ‘Mtired is all.” Sam wrapped his hands around the coffee mug, nearly making it disappear in the process. 

“That dream you had?” Dean’s voice was rough, worried.

“Yeah,” Sam admitted grudgingly. He hadn’t had a vision in a long time. He wasn’t sure what this dream could portend, if anything. He didn’t _want_ to know. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

Sam looked at Dean incredulously. 

“Do you want to hear about it?” Sam’s voice was tinged with caution. Dean quirked a smile.

“Not really. But if it helps you to figure it out, I’ll listen.”

Sam told Dean the little fragments he had, including the scream, the unearthly howl that had woken him up. By the time he finished (which didn’t take all that long) their food had arrived and Dean was shoveling home fries into his mouth while he listened, eyes intent on Sam.

“It just sounds like a dream to me, Sammy,” Dean said apologetically. 

“I know. It feels like more, though,” Sam replied, picking at his omelette with no appetite.

“Well, we can’t do anything about it unless it becomes something _more_ than a dream.” Dean said reasonably. “Try not to worry about it.”

Sam gave Dean a ‘have you met me?’ look. 

“Yeah,” he drawled, “I’ll get right on that.” Then he winced as Dean kicked him in the shin under the table. This turned into a brief scuffle as Sam tried to kick Dean back but ended up kicking the bottom of the booth seat instead and then Dean kicked him again. It would have escalated even further if the waitress hadn’t arrived to ask if they needed anything else? 

“No, ma’am,” Sam replied, mild as milk, and flashed his patented aw-shucks grin with dimples, which always got him the extra cookie. From diner waitresses, anyway. 

“Suck-up,” Dean muttered as they paid.

They got into the Impala and set off even though they had no particular place to go and no jobs on deck. It would never have occurred to Dean to just stay put.

They drove aimlessly along country back roads, enjoying the late-autumn sunshine and orange leaves spinning through the shafts of sunlight. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and Sam felt the cool breeze ruffle through his hair. He closed his eyes and let a rare sense of calm well being suffuse through him.

They stopped at a small country store for handmade sandwiches and bottles of root beer, and Dean drove to a riverbank, where they sat and ate in companionable silence. Sam leaned against a tree, the sun on his face, feeling full and drowsy and content.

The feeling followed Sam into sleep until, like clouds parting, he saw the thing from his previous dream.

No longer formless, like a shadow or a smear, it stood like a man on two bone-white legs. Bits of black fluttered around a hole in its chest, and it clutched its head with hands as white and hyper-extended as its arms. Its face was a blazing pale mask with burning eye sockets. It threw its head back and screamed, that same booming metallic sound that had wrenched Sam out of sleep the night before. 

“I can smell your soul,” it said, its voice an awful, grating noise, swinging its head around like a scenting dog. “Your soul smells delicious. I wonder if you taste as good as you smell?” 

It flowed towards Sam, mouth open wide, showing another set of teeth _within_ its mouth, and Sam flailed awake, hitting the back of his head against the tree. 

Dean glanced over, assessing Sam with a lightning-quick look. “Another dream?”

Sam nodded, running shaky hands through sweaty hair.

“I think we’re supposed to find this thing,” Sam said, pulling himself together. “We have to go.” He struggled to his feet, and Dean was in front of him instantly, palm against his chest.

“Hang on a damn minute, Sam. You have two dreams about this thing and we’re just supposed to chase after it?”

“It’s dangerous, Dean, we have to stop it.” 

“Sam, we don’t even know what IT is!” Dean crowded into Sam’s space, all up in his face and angry. “Think for a second, okay? I don’t care what kind of dreams you’re having, we research this before we go off half-cocked. We find out what it is and then we go and kill it. Alright?” 

Sam emerged from his momentary obsession with getting out there, saving people, hunting the Thing, and took a step back, a little surprised at how he had pushed against Dean’s restraining hand. He looked down at his brother.

“Dude, you said ‘cock’,” he smirked. Dean’s face went sour and he smacked Sam upside the head. 

“Did you hear _anything_ I just said?” Dean snapped.

“Yeah, okay, okay. We research it, go in armed. I got it. Can we just -- get back on the road? I’ll look through Dad’s journal while you drive.” Sam still felt that strange urgency to find the monstrosity -- and soon. 

“Yeah, fine, Sammy.” They walked back to the Impala. When they were settled inside, Dean looked over at Sam. “Where to, Nostradamus?” 

Sam rolled his eyes. He concentrated on the feeling of urgency, thrumming like a chord along his nerve-endings. His awareness slid along it until -- there. He pointed. 

“That way.” 

Dean put the car into gear, shaking his head. “Freaky, man,” was all he said. Sam shrugged and started paging through Dad’s journal. 

By the time they stopped for the night, Sam had unerringly pointed them through numerous turnings while Dean drove and looked increasingly uncomfortable. 

Then again, Dean never _had_ gotten comfortable with Sam’s potential psychic abilities.

Sam had also come up with zero from Dad’s journal. There was nothing in it that resembled the creature from his dreams. The closest he’d come was the Wendigo and Sam _knew_ it wasn’t one of those.

They stopped at yet another anonymous motel, Sam distracted and mechanically unloading their bags and settling in. What he really wanted to do was fire up his laptop and get this thing figured out so they could fight it and he could be rid of the horrible foreboding he felt. 

“I’m going to go find some food,” Dean said to the air, knowing Sam’s mind was elsewhere. “Hey. _Hey_.”

Sam looked up. 

“Don’t _go_ anywhere. You got me?” 

“It’s fine, Dean. I won’t ditch you.” 

“Well, okay.” Dean left, despite his obvious misgivings. Sam sat down with his laptop and got to work. 

Dean returned an hour later bearing Chinese takeout. 

“I hate these one-horse towns. You gotta drive forever to get something to eat.” he grumbled. “Got anything?” 

“Zilch,” Sam admitted. “My searches haven’t turned up a damn thing.” 

“Well, take a break and eat. You’ll get there.” 

Sam cleared off the tiny dinette table and they set to. Afterwards, Dean cleaned guns and Sam leaned against the headboard of his bed with his laptop, intent on getting this sussed before he slept. He felt drowsy but fought it, he needed to research. But he dropped into sleep like being dropped down a well. 

Sam dreamed. 

He was back in the place he had been before, burning pale creature flowing towards him like a hyper-articulated snake. Its mouth gaped impossibly wide and it buried sharp teeth in Sam’s shoulder. Sam bit back a scream as he sank to his knees, pulling the creature with him. He shoved his forearm into the thing’s mouth as if it were a vicious dog, and pushed against it. The creature disengaged, chuckling as it licked Sam’s blood (so crimson against its white face) from the corner of its mouth. 

“I was right,” it rumbled. “Delicious. Don’t keep me waiting, Seer. I don’t want to come looking for you.” 

Then it reached out and squeezed Sam’s shoulder where it had bitten him. 

This time Sam screamed out loud, waking himself up. Dean was sitting next to him on the bed, hands on his shoulders as if he had been shaking Sam to wake him. His eyes were wide and slightly panicky.

“Sam…?” 

Sam shrugged Dean’s hands off him. He felt under his shirt, left hand to right shoulder. The skin was whole, untouched. Yet it ached as if he had a deep wound that had healed a long time ago, throbbing in time with his racing heart. 

“Sam?” Dean queried again, voice soft. 

“God, Dean. It’s after me. It’s after _me_ and I don’t know what it is or how to stop it.” Sam ran shaking hands through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut, terrified. 

“Tell me everything.” Dean ordered, and Sam did. 

“It called you ‘Seer’?” Dean interrupted at one point. Sam nodded. “Okay. Go on.” 

When Sam finished, Dean gave his head a sharp shake. “Okay, we hit a dead end on our own. I’m gonna call Bobby and see what he knows.” 

“I’m takin’ a shower,” Sam announced, hating the smell of fear-sweat on him. He rolled out of bed as Dean dialed Bobby’s number.

Sam stripped down and got as much of himself under the weak and tepid shower spray as he could. His mind ranged through the dreams to see if there was anything at all familiar in them for him to grasp onto, but there was nothing. Nothing. 

Panic was very close to the surface for him -- he could usually figure out what it was they were hunting. If he didn’t figure it out through blood-and-guts research, it was through intuitive leaps and Dad’s journal. He didn’t like not knowing what was attacking him. He didn’t like that there wasn’t a single thing he could dig up about the creature. He didn’t like not being able to sleep. 

Sam went through the familiar and ultimately calming motions of showering -- literally lathering, rinsing, and repeating. He fought the panic down through sheer discipline, reaching for the inner calm he always felt in the moment before he made a kill, or when all the pieces of a puzzle fell into place. Even if he had nothing, he could fake it and anyway, hysteria helped nobody. 

He stepped out of the bathroom, ridiculously tiny towel wrapped around his hips, and observed Dean scowling at the laptop’s screen. 

“I don’t think they get any bustier if you squint,” Sam stated. “And that’ll give you wrinkles.”

“ _I’ll_ give you wrinkles, wiseass,” Dean retorted. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam replied sympathetically. “There’s no shame in growing old gracefully.” 

“You keep it up, I _will_ be the only one here growing old.” Dean closed the laptop with a snap. “Bobby didn’t have anything, but he sounded _really_ interested. He’ll call if he gets anywhere.” He stood and stretched. “Let’s go find a bar, Sammy. All work and no play, etcetera.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Sam realized he needed the distraction, so he got dressed and followed Dean out to the Impala.

*

They were happy-drunk when they returned, warm and buzzed with beer and shots and pool and the bonhomie of being around people who were exactly as they seemed. Sam kicked the motel door shut and collapsed onto his bed, toeing his boots off clumsily.

“I just want to sleep without any freaky paleface whatsits attacking me,” he mumbled, feeling the bed spin slightly. 

“Here, Sammy,” Dean looped the dreamcatcher, which usually lived on the inside of the trunk lid, over Sam’s bedpost. “’at should help.” Then Dean shuffled over to his own bed and fell in a graceless heap atop the covers. Seconds later, Sam heard him start to snore.

“Yeah, sure,” Sam snorted in the general direction of the dreamcatcher. Like some little bit of wood and sinew would keep away that creepy-ass thing. “Whatever.” 

Yet it did seem to work. Sam drifted into a dreamless and restful sleep, waking to the sound of Dean on the phone. His tone of voice told Sam that it was Bobby at the other end of the conversation. 

Sam sat up, grunting, and Dean glanced at him. “Okay, thanks, Bobby. Call us if you get anything else.” he clicked the phone shut. “Well, well. Look who decided to finally wake up and get to work.” 

Sam flipped Dean off as he sat on his bed across from Sam. 

“How long did I sleep?” he asked. 

“Bout ten hours.” Dean said. “You want the good news or the crappy news?” 

“The good news?” Sam ventured.

“Bobby knows what it is.” 

Sam just raised his eyebrows in a ‘go on’ expression. 

“It’s something called a Hollow. It’s basically an angry spirit that devours other souls, alive or dead, to fill it up. Bobby says Hollows like to consume really powerful souls.” 

“Oh,” Sam said, absorbing the idea that he had a powerful soul. It wasn’t very comforting. “How do we kill it?” 

“That’s the crappy news. We can’t.” 

“Whaddya mean we can’t?” Sam looked incredulously at Dean, who didn’t look any happier than Sam. 

“Bobby says they can only be killed by things called Shinigami -- Soul Reapers. Not to be confused with regular Reapers. They have special swords that do the job.” 

“Okay, so then we summon a Shinigami, right?” Sam’s voice started its panicked rise again. 

“Nope. If only it was that easy. The only way a Soul Reaper will show up is to fight an already manifested Hollow.” 

“…which hasn’t happened yet. Dammit!” Sam flopped back into the bed. “This sucks. I guess this means I’m bait.” 

“The hell you are! I’m not risking you to lure out this Hollow. What if a Soul Reaper doesn’t show? We could have the Hollow manifesting and no way to kill it. No way am I letting you play decoy.” 

“Dean --“ Sam started. “Wait, did you just say ‘let you’? Do you think you can actually stop me if I decide to do this on my own?” 

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you from going after this -- I’ll tie you up if I have to.” Dean stated. 

Sam got out of bed, fuming. He loomed over his brother. “There’s not a knot you can tie that’ll hold me -- you taught me everything I know about getting out of them. And I _will_ go through you to lure this out if I have to. You can either come with me and help, or let me go off on my own to do it, but either way, I _am_ going.” His voice was level and controlled even though fury was beating at the back of his teeth, waiting to be unleashed. 

“There are so many unknowns here and I don’t like the idea of depending on some other _thing_ to take it out.” Dean looked up at Sam, angry and trapped not just by the choices, but by Sam’s infuriated height.

“Dean, it won’t stop at me. It said it would come to me if I didn’t come to it, and once it manifests, it’ll consume my soul, and maybe yours, and maybe a whole lot of other souls. We draw it out and this Shinigami can take care of it. It’s all we can do.” 

Dean rubbed his face with his hands, shoulders slumping. Sam sat next to him on the bed. 

“You know I’m right. This is the only way.” he said softly. 

Dean’s mouth turned down in an angry grimace. “I know. I just hate the idea of risking you to do it.”

“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be at risk, too,” Sam tried for jocularity. 

“Oh good! I feel so much better now.” Dean said sarcastically. He slapped his palms on his thighs and stood up. “Guess we better hit the road, then.” 

Sam started pulling on his clothes as Dean threw gear into his duffel, muttering to himself.

On their way out, Dean said, “Heads up,” and tossed the car keys to Sam. He caught them on pure reflex, and then gave Dean a perplexed look. Dean held up his hands.

“Hey, you’re the one with the supernatural GPS. You drive.” 

Sam’s expression was a comical mix of excitement and hurt. Neither emotion stopped him from swinging into the driver’s seat of the Impala and starting it up. He reached for the radio dial and Dean knocked his hand away.

“Ah ah ah,” Sam admonished, “you know the rules.” 

“Shit…” Dean muttered. “This is going to suck.” 

They got back on the highway quickly, with Sam making a pit stop at a McDonald’s drive-through for breakfast. He took mercy on Dean and turned the radio to a classic rock station. 

Sam drove absent-mindedly, almost paying no attention. He had no idea where he was going, what state, which highway -- he drove on instinct, a turn here, a turn there, and sometime just after noon, when the sun was dead-center in the sky, he pulled to a stop. 

They were somewhere in the country, on a dirt road which was lined with a variety of trees -- birch, oak, maple -- in stunning displays of autumnal glory. Sam pulled the Impala to the side of the road and got out. He would have charged into the trees if Dean hadn’t yelled, “Sam! Hold up!” 

“What?”

“I don’t care what Bobby said about Soul Reapers, we go in armed. Maybe we can’t kill the Hollow but we can try to slow it down until one of them gets here. So grab yourself some guns, and then we’ll get going.” 

“Fine.” Sam sounded petulant and impatient and he knew it, but fighting against the compulsion to just _go_ was proving very difficult. It was like someone was propelling him forward by pushing him in the back. 

He made his way to the open trunk and took the gun Dean gave him, shoving it into the waistband of his jeans. He tucked an iron-bladed knife up his sleeve as well, and then turned to Dean.

“Salt rounds?” he asked.

“If I had a goddamn flamethrower, I’d pack that, too.” Dean responded grimly. “As it is, I want the usual. Salt, iron, silver. Who knows what might work?”

“We ready now?” Sam turned, seeing Dean’s nod out of the corner of his eye. “Then let’s go.” 

Sam plunged into a stand of trees. Behind him he heard Dean’s boots crunching on fallen leaves. He ducked low branches and strode over fallen logs until he reached a clearing. Birch trees, yellow leaves reaching up to a blameless blue sky, ringed it. Sam strode into the center of it. He spread his arms and shouted, “I’m here! Show yourself!” He turned slowly in a circle, glaring at the trees.

“Sammy! Get down!” Dean bellowed, and Sam dropped. Dean fired over his head and horrifying scream assaulted his ears. Sam got up from his crouch and looked behind him. There was a tear in the sky that revealed absolute blackness. He backed away from it, his bones singing with adrenaline. 

An insectile limb stepped through, impossibly long and strangely delicate, followed by a torso clad in rags with a hole in its chest. It was roughly man-shaped, with two legs and two arms, but its limbs were attenuated to the point of emaciation. The appendages were too long to reasonably support the body or the head, which was a skeletal white mask with burning yellow eyes. 

Its mouth was wide open, showing a second set of teeth, just like Sam had envisioned in his dreams. It was so big, so _real_ , real in a way that it hadn’t been in his subconscious. 

“Seer!” it roared. “Now I can feast on you _and_ your brother!” 

“Think so?” came a sarcastic voice. 

Sam and Dean’s heads snapped around. 

Standing at the edge of the clearing was a short wiry kid with a crazy mop of bright orange hair. He had an enormous sword, bigger than he was, slung casually over his shoulder. 

Dean, who had run up next to Sam, muttered, “That’s a Shinigami?” out of the side of his mouth.

“I…guess so,” Sam replied, completely nonplussed. 

They both watched as the kid more or less ran _up_ the Hollow, burying his big-ass sword in its shoulder. The Hollow screamed again and flung him against a tree with a punishing crash. He slid down the trunk and disappeared into the shrubbery around the base.

“Uh, Dean?” Sam started to back up. “Might be a good time to figure out a Plan B.” 

“Plan B?” Dean snarled. “There _is_ no Plan B. The whole plan was, we draw it out, the Soul Reaper appears and kills it, and we move on! Instead, we get a kid in a dress and a sword he obviously can’t handle, who gets TKO’d in half a round!”

“It’s _not_ a dress,” came a snarl eerily similar to Dean’s. “It’s a shihakusho. And,” here Dean’s eyes crossed as he found himself looking at the point of a _very_ long sword, “I can handle my zanpakuto just fine.” 

With that, the kid -- Shinigami, Sam corrected himself, smacked Dean on the cheek with the flat of the blade, and turned back to the Hollow. 

“Wow,” Dean said wonderingly, rubbing the side of his face, which was turning pink, “Soul Reaper or no, I’m gonna kick that kid’s ass when he’s done with that Hollow.” 

“Yeah, you’re a big man, beating up on a kid half your age _and_ your size,” Sam returned absently, watching the battle start up again.

“I’m pretty sure he could take it,” responded Dean.

“Soul Reaper!” roared the Hollow, “It’s your soul I will feast on first for your interference!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” taunted the Soul Reaper. “Like you’re the first Hollow to ever say that to me.” 

“Ichigo, stop playing around! Just kill the Hollow and let’s get out of here!” 

Dean and Sam’s astonished gazes again snapped around to find the source of the voice. Standing in the exact same spot where the first Soul Reaper had appeared was a girl, positively tiny, in the same kind of garb. Her arms were folded and she glared at the boy facing the Hollow. He threw her a furious look.

“I’m not playin’, Rukia! It just caught me by surprise! And then these frickin’ _people_ got in my way.” 

Dean gaped at the kid, prepared to argue about the accusation that they were ‘in the way’, when the Hollow made an enormous fist and swung it towards the Shinigami. Rukia gasped, “Ichi-!” and a shot rang out. 

The Hollow shrieked as smoking holes peppered its chest. Ichigo looked over at Dean, whose sawed-off was leveled at the Hollow. 

“Thanks,” Ichigo muttered.

“Don’t thank me, just kill that damn thing so we can call it a day and get a beer!” Dean yelled back. Ichigo nodded, turning towards the Hollow, who flowed not towards him, but to Sam.

“Come to me, Seer,” it crooned, “you will make me powerful.” 

Sam shook the iron knife down into his hand. “Your sales pitch kinda sucks,” he announced, and threw the knife into the Hollow’s eye. It howled, clapping bony hands over its face, plucking the knife out quickly as smoke rose from the socket. The Hollow flung the knife into a tree, point first, and Sam vaguely wondered if he would live long enough to retrieve it, or if the Shinigami was quick enough to get to the Hollow before the Hollow got to him.

Ichigo vaulted _up_ the air like a Kabuki demon and buried his zanpakuto into the Hollow’s head. It gave a last booming bellow and disintegrated into a thousand fragmented pieces. They were rather pretty, actually, like shreds of colored paper, which went totally unappreciated by all the other parties in the clearing. 

Sam and Dean turned to face Ichigo as he bounded off the air again. 

“Are all Shinigami as young as you?” Sam asked. Ichigo scowled. 

“He’s in training.” the girl, Rukia, said. Ichigo threw her an angry, why-you-gotta-be-like-that look.

Rukia was so startlingly doll-like that Sam couldn’t stop staring. She barely came up to his ribcage and she had the most interesting blue-violet eyes. Her hair kept falling across her face, which made Sam wonder how she could fight anything like that.

“You seem kinda young, too,” Dean remarked, and she also scowled. 

“I’ve been a Soul Reaper for 800 years. I can’t help that I was youthful when I died.” 

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. ‘Died?’ Dean mouthed. Sam shrugged. Maybe you had to be dead to be a Soul Reaper.

“Are you dead, too?” Sam asked Ichigo. 

“No, I’m a special case,” Ichigo replied.

“You got that right,” muttered Dean under his breath. Sam elbowed him in the ribs.

“How come you could see that Hollow?” Ichigo challenged. 

“I dreamed about it,” Sam offered. “And when we found out what it was and that you guys were the only ones capable of killing it, we came here to draw it out.” 

“Plus, it’s kind of our job, hunting evil, killing things,” threw in Dean.

“You were the one it was calling ‘Seer’!” Rukia exclaimed, looking up at Sam. “Is it true?” 

“Uhhhh…” Sam dissembled. “I used to have visions. I haven’t had them in a long time, though. I didn’t think I could anymore, until I dreamed of the Hollow. It wanted me specifically, it said.” 

Rukia and Ichigo exchanged a look of their own. 

“It was only a little Hollow, not very bright,” Rukia said to Ichigo. 

“But if you get enough of them together, you get a Menos or even an Adjucha or Vasto Lorde…and if they’re devouring the souls of Seers and other people with talents, becoming Arrancar…” Ichigo trailed off. “I bet this is more of Aizen’s work.” 

“This could be bad,” Rukia said. “We need to get back to the Soul Society with this information!” 

The pair turned, completely disregarding Sam and Dean. 

“HEY!” Dean yelled.

They turned back; twin looks of annoyance on their faces. 

“Not that I want to keep you from wherever it is you have to rush off to, but could you maybe take a minute to tell us what the hell you’re talking about?” 

“We don’t know, not really,” Rukia said. “Only that the Hollows seem to be attacking people with extraordinary talents. Like yours,” she indicated Sam. “And if they’re absorbing these talents, and then combining, it could mean trouble for all Shinigami. And trouble for humans, too.” 

“So, it’s possible I could be attacked again?” Sam asked, dreading the answer.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Rukia was apologetic. 

“What are we supposed to do if it happens again? We know we can’t kill the Hollows.” Dean’s voice was tight with frustration. 

“It started with dreams, didn’t it?” Ichigo asked. Sam nodded. “If you start having the dreams again, contact me.” 

“Okay. How?” 

Ichigo looked down at himself, apparently forgetting that he was wearing a medieval Japanese fighting costume. “Dammit! You have a pen and paper? I’ll give you my email address.” 

Dean muttered something that sounded like “…totally surreal…” and Ichigo’s gaze flicked to him. “You know, you could show a little gratitude, considering I just saved both your asses.” 

Dean just glared at Ichigo. “Just because you’re younger, don’t think I won’t pound you into the ground to teach you some manners.” 

“You wanna go, old man? That Hollow didn’t even wind me!” Ichigo assumed a fighting stance with his sword. 

Sam yelled “Dean!” at the same time that Rukia shouted “Ichigo!” 

“We don’t have time for this!” Rukia admonished. “We have to tell Renji or Byakuya about this latest attack!” 

“Um…” Sam proffered a pen and a scrap of receipt to Ichigo, hoping to distract the Soul Reaper from throwing down with his brother. Dean crossed his arms and huffed. 

Ichigo scribbled an email address onto the paper. 

“If you start dreaming about Hollows again, make sure you email me. We’ll get someone out to you before you can be attacked again.” 

Sam looked down at Ichigo, who was nearly a full foot shorter than he was. His eyebrows were crinkled skeptically. “Are you sure?”

Ichigo gave Sam a wolfish grin. “This is what we do.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Sam agreed. “And…thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Ichigo turned away again, and Rukia shouted something in what sounded like Japanese, tearing the sky open again to reveal little houses with pointed roofs under a starry sky. They leapt through, leaving Sam and Dean in the clearing alone. Somewhere, a crow cawed. 

“Can you believe it? That brat called me ‘old man’!” Dean was totally outraged. 

“Yeah, well, when you were his age, 29 _was_ old.” Sam temporized.

“Whatever. At least I wasn’t wearing sandals with _socks_.” Dean started hiking back through the forest. Sam trailed him, deep in thought. 

They got back to the Impala, put away their weapons, and got back on the road, Dean driving this time. He said something about hitting a big city, having had enough of nature in autumn, and Sam answered in monosyllables, unaware of Dean’s worried looks.

They hit a city as night fell, and Dean found them a dicey motel by his own special instinct. He announced that he was goin’ out for a beer, did Sam want to come with him? 

“No thanks,” said Sam. “I have some stuff I need to do.” 

After Dean left, Sam opened his laptop and stared at the screen for a long time. He opened the web browser and clicked on his mail program. Looking from the scrap of paper to the screen, he typed in the address that Ichigo had given him. The subject line read: _I hope you don’t mind me contacting you so soon_ and the mail started with, “I have some questions.” 

After Sam sent the mail, he performed his bedtime routine and went to bed, feeling strange and disconnected and not at all real. It was sometimes like that after a hunt, especially one that ended with so much unresolved. He was still staring at the ceiling when Dean came in. 

“Everything okay, Sammy?” Dean asked, shucking his clothes. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, Dean,” Sam replied. 

Which, even if it weren’t exactly true, was the only answer Sam could give Dean, since there was nothing either of them could do about it. 

Sam was only able to drift off to sleep after Dean started snoring. 

He checked his mail the next morning while Dean was in the shower. He had new mail (sent via several anonymous remailers and to a public domain account) from Ichigo’s address. The first line read, “I have some questions, too.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Craving Strawberry Surprise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020649) by [the_rogue_bitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rogue_bitch/pseuds/the_rogue_bitch)




End file.
